right angle of my mouth, and a brain on fire? I have ceased to write my
book--the more the pity for the world, not for me.

'_June 26_.--Marvellous to tell, the traitor, Ul-Jabal, has now placed
_another_ stone in the Edmundsbury chalice--also identical in nearly
every respect with the original gem. This, then, was the object of his
entry into my room yesterday. So that he has first stolen the real
stone and replaced it by another; then he has stolen this other and
replaced it by yet another; he has beside stolen the valueless stone
from the modern chalice, and then replaced it. Surely a man gone rabid,
a man gone dancing, foaming, raving mad!

'_June 28_.--I have now set myself to the task of recovering my jewel.
It is here, and I shall find it. Life against life--and which is the
best life, mine or this accursed Ishmaelite's? If need be, I will do
murder--I, with this withered hand--so that I get back the heritage
which is mine.

'To-day, when I thought he was wandering in the park, I stole into his
room, locking the door on the inside. I trembled exceedingly, knowing
that his eyes are in every place. I ransacked the chamber, dived among
his clothes, but found no stone. One singular thing in a drawer I saw:
a long, white beard, and a wig of long and snow-white hair. As I passed
out of the chamber, lo, he stood face to face with me at the door in
the passage. My heart gave one bound, and then seemed wholly to cease
its travail. Oh, I must be sick unto death, weaker than a bruised reed!
When I woke from my swoon he was supporting me in his arms. "Now," he
said, grinning down at me, "now you have at last delivered all into my
hands." He left me, and I saw him go into his room and lock the door
upon himself. What is it I have delivered into the madman's hands?